How strange that Christmas Eve should always feel like such a dark night. My memories of it are always surrounded by the thick veil of blackness at the edge – the way we would march into mass just as the sun was descending, and march out in complete darkness. Sometimes it was already dark out when we left for church, and even without all the Christmas lights on the houses, or perhaps because of them, the darkness felt more full, more endless, more… dramatic.
What light might there have been in that manger all those years ago? I don’t recall mention of a roaring fire, or even candlelight, only that it was cold, and they laid the baby in the straw because it was all they had. Desolation begets drama, and so the Christmas story of my childhood was told to me. Every year that story would be read to the congregation of St. Mary’s, and I remember sitting on the altar in my altar boy garb, twiddling my fingers beneath the cassock and eagerly anticipating the magic of the evening ahead. It was the one church service I didn’t mind attending, as the nativity beside us glowed with its own light, staving off the surrounding darkness, reminding me of where my head should be. Jesus – the reason for the season – or so said a religious instructor I once had. I laughed so hysterically at the saying that she couldn’t help but laugh too. She recognized the sense of silliness inherent in such a belief, and I recognized the seriousness of her faith – somewhere in the middle we met, and I didn’t get in trouble for disrupting the class.
Christmas Eve was the night we were supposed to pause and reflect on what the season truly meant, outside of the gift-giving and Santa showmanship. Personally, I got the lesson early and understood that it wasn’t about packages, boxes or bags – hell, anyone who paid attention to ‘The Grinch Who Stole Christmas’ knew Christmas meant a little bit more. Though that certainly didn’t mean I didn’t want the gifts and presents. Who wouldn’t?
We begged and sang for God to give rest to us merry gentlemen, and we went to bed barely able to contain our excitement or close our eyes. Restless beneath the bed covers, I still ended up falling asleep well before Santa ever arrived. My brother managed to stay up one year, sneak down to the landing of the stairs, and spied on my parents putting presents under the tree. I think I knew the secret by then, but didn’t let on. He was more vocal in his disbelief. Somehow, I didn’t want to break the spell. We were always different in just about every way.
We have arrived at the start of that special evening once again, and though it’s been a while since I’ve felt the magic I felt as a kid, remnants of it remain. Mysteries still unsolved linger in the songs here, hints of enchantments that smell of pine and cinnamon carry through the air, and hidden treats are tantalizingly hung in the upper echelon of unreachable Christmas tree boughs. Maybe the magic is in the mystery of it all, and holding onto that is how we hold onto Christmas. It’s so easy to break the spell in the harsh light of day – perhaps all this darkness is how the magic happens.
